


I know what you did last night

by Tabata



Series: Leoverse [33]
Category: Glee
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-24
Updated: 2019-08-24
Packaged: 2020-09-25 09:43:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20374702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tabata/pseuds/Tabata
Summary: Alex convinces Timmy to hit the town with him and have fun. After drinking too much, Timmy wakes up in the wrong place, totally unaware of the incredibly heroic act of kindness (and several other things) he did during  the night.





	I know what you did last night

**Author's Note:**

> **WARNING:** This story is a spin-off sequel for Broken Heart Syndrome. This means that, despite not being properly set after BHS (but that's only because BHS is probably never going to have a proper ending and we'll keep talking about these people forever), it depicts things happening way late in the 'verse, and that may be on varying degrees of spoiler.  
This is part of Alex and Timmy's canon timeline.

Timmy opens his eyes on the new pigpen. Vince had it built a few weeks ago because the old one was too small for the number of pigs he's got now. Nobody expected all the sows to give birth to six to ten piglets each, and the pigpen became a pig kindergarten with some thirty piglets running around over each other and over their mothers and fathers. It was madness.

The new structure is way larger – Vince had to sacrifice part of a field he was planning to use for wheat, since there's market for it now – and it's way sturdier than the old one. Vince called this Fernando guy he knew, a man in his sixty who showed up with only a hammer, nails and a pick-up full of wooden planks, and built everything alone in one day. Fernando wore short khaki pants and that white undershirt all senior Italians wear for some reason. He swore a lot – even Timmy recognizes those words now – and he didn't speak a single word of English, yet Timmy always had a laugh with him every time he happened to pass by the pen because the man was really entertaining.

The new pen is gorgeous, but there's something off with it and Timmy can't quite understand what it is. Then he realizes that the pigpen is on the east side of the farm, so he shouldn't be able to see it from Alex's bedroom, where he formally shouldn't reside – Vince loves him like a son, but he agrees with Cody that Alex is too young to have his boyfriend sleeping in his bedroom – and where he unofficially stays from midnight to dawn, when Alex's parents are asleep and they don't know he's in there.

He doesn't understand why anybody would want to move an entire army of pigs from one side of the farm to the other. Unless it's aliens, they sometimes move animals around, don't they? Still, from what he remembers of all the sci-fi movies Leo made him watch, aliens take cows, not pigs. He sits up and rubs his eyes, trying to shake off sleep. It's like he didn't sleep enough or he slept really bad, because it's unusual for him to be so groggy when he wakes up. You can't be a farmer if you don't have a body that allows you to go to bed exhausted at midnight every night and wake up perfectly rested at dawn every morning – that's the first thing Vince told him when he expressed the desire to work with him.

Timmy looks around and it all becomes even more confusing when he realizes that he's not, in fact, looking at the pigpen from Alex's bed, as he was thinking, but from a stack of hay inside what looks like the barn. Now, the pigpen is perfectly visible from the barn – so that explains once and for all why he can see it – but why he has woken up, and possibly, slept in the barn, that remains unclear.

He decides that the answers he needs to find – whatever they are – he will not find them in the barn. So he stands up and wobbles out of there on legs that struggle to both keep him up and go straight. Outside the sun is already high and there are workers on the farm, tending to the animals and the fields. He knows them all by name at this point and they know him. They seem to find him very funny for some reason because they're all chuckling when he passes them by. 

He looks down at himself and he finally realizes that he's wearing his Hugo Boss white shirt and his black jeans, which is unusual but at least helps to jog his memory. They went out, Alex and him. Somewhere in Florence, for sure because he remembers taking the car – or at least he remembers them _inside_ a car, which could mean several different things. He doesn't have all the details yet, just random flashes, but it's something.

By the time he gets to the house, he also remembers kissing Alex in a way that would have surely required the police intervention – and laughing his ass off in a square paved in stones, which could have been any square in Florence, since the whole city is built like that. Baby steps, though. He knows that if he waits long enough, everything will come back to him. He has the tendency to black out but he never really forgets anything.

There was a time, when he was fourteen, that he and Bran decided it was time for them to hit the town – which was big, considering that Lima had, like, two bars – and get wasted. They sneaked out their houses and, of course, none of the two bars let them in, so they paid two older guys to buy beer for them at the liquor store. They drunk more than they could handle – which at that age was very little – and woke up on a park bench several hours later, both missing a shoe. Timmy didn't remember anything for days. Then slowly, one by one, every piece of information resurfaced from the darkness of his alcohol-induced amnesia and he could retrace his steps to the old warehouse where he found his and Bran's missing shoes. He's confident that it will happen the same this time. First, though, he needs coffee.

He finds coffee and Alex in the kitchen, both of them unexpectedly ready. “Look what the cat dragged in,” Alex chuckles. He's the usual merciless ice queen, but he's handing him a cup, so Timmy doesn't mind. 

He holds the steamy cup in his hands and enjoys its warmth, despite it being the hottest July in Italian history. He survived a night he doesn't know anything about right now, he needs and deserves the comfort of a hot beverage. He takes a generous sip and only his extremely good manners prevent him from spitting it all out. “God, you are so bad at making coffee, love,” he swallows in pain. 

Timmy pushes the cup away but Alex offers it to him again. “That's because it's not coffee,” he explains patiently. “It's a brew of artichoke.”

“It's something no human being should drink, then.”

“It's for the hungover,” Alex insists. “Trust me, it's magic.”

Timmy grabs the cup again, but just eyes the blackish liquid suspiciously. “How come you're perfectly fine and I feel like a truck run over him once and then twice in reverse?”

“Because of that,” Alex chuckles, pointing at his mug again. “And because I drank way less than you and then threw it all up during the night.”

“It makes no sense, you weigh what? Eighty pounds?” Timmy dares to take another sip of the horrible witch concoction and coughs, his tongue out. “It really tastes like shit.”

“Say a hundred and twenty, but thank you for believing otherwise,” Alex says. He's wearing a pair of black jeans shorts that leave his endless legs completely exposed and a light blue shirt made of nothing, draped perfectly around his body. He looks as stunning as one of those Renaissance statues. “How much do you remember?”

“Not much,” Timmy says honestly. “At the moment, only that we went out.”

“Wow. Then, it's worse than I thought. Drink some more of that,” Alex orders him. Timmy makes a face but he does how he's told. This thing tastes really bad, but he must admit it's working. His head feels a little clearer. It might be that or the sight of Alex's thighs that's sobering him up, he's not sure. He'll keep drinking _and_ looking, just to be sure. “My dads took the night off.”

Timmy struggles for a while but then he remembers them telling him they were going to be away for the night and part of the day after. Vince looked mortified. He said he felt a little guilty because he had been wanting to go to this jazz festival for months, but it didn't look like a good reason to take a vacation from the farm, leaving Timmy and all the other workers to deal with it. It was absolutely no problem for Timmy, so used to his own parents showing up in his room with their stuff already packed, announcing without the faintest trace of remorse that they are going to Europe for two weeks and his siblings are now his responsibility. 

“Yeah,” Timmy nods. “They took Cody's car and left the SUV here.”

“Which was perfect because the SUV is automatic,” Alex grins at him. Clearly, he decided to help him remember by feeding him only little pieces of the night before. “So, you could drive it.”

Alex waited for his fathers to be gone and then announced to him that they were going to have fun in Florence. Timmy tried to protest – he's sure of that – but Alex convinced him by showing him his pierced bellybutton and the ridiculously sexy silver butterfly hanging from it. “I was weak,” he admits. And he's so shocked that he takes another sip of artichoke brew, tasting nothing but his own shame.

Alex chuckles, but he has the decency not to comment on that. “So we dolled up, took the car and hit a few parties along the road.”

“A few parties?” 

“A few of my friends' birthday parties to begin with and then some other places. It was a busy Saturday,” Alex nods. “We just dropped by, said hi, drank something and then left. We met with Neri at some point and he tagged along to the club.”

“Right! Neri!” Timmy says, excited because the fog in his brain is really starting to fade away. He has a very weird relationship with Alex's best friend. Neri speaks English, so there are no communication problems there, but the guy is weird. So, most of the times Timmy understands all the words he's saying but he doesn't get what he's talking about anyway. Yesterday, though, Neri brought beer – to pay for the ride, he said – and tripe sandwiches so good that Timmy almost wanted to cry but that Alex categorically refused to eat, because he's on a veggie-only diet right now. “He came with us to the club... and he danced on a table.”

“With you, yes,” Alex rolls his eyes as he takes a sip from one of the recycled flasks he always brings along. There is no infernal brew in there, but orange juice. 

“What? I don't dance on tables.”

“Yesterday you did,” Alex insists. “You and Neri found this communion over a song you both went crazy for for some reason and up you went on the first table you found, shaking your butts like madmen. I must admit you really were a sight, but you were pretty out of it and I had to pull you down because you were about to strip.”

“You're tripping. That never happened.”

Alex doesn't waste time arguing, he just shows him several pictures where he's indeed dancing on a black square table that seems on the verge of breaking down. “In my drunken haze I made you an entire photo shoot. I will cherish these images forever, and possibly use them to blackmail you.”

“I can't believe that I don't remember any of this,” Timmy says in shock. “I couldn't be so drunk, Alex.”

“No? Let me tell you another piece of the story then,” Alex goes on, sitting on the table. “By the time I manage to drag you and Neri down that table, I'm barely able to stand myself and you're laughing your face off. We walk out of the club because it's, like, three in the morning and we start walking down the street. At some point we pass by a restaurant, one of those that have lobster tanks in the window. Neri says something about these poor animals being captured when they're still small to be raised in captivity only to be eaten. He's drunk, but you're drunker and you get really furious with this anonymous entity who enslaves lobsters to serve them as delicacies all over the world. So you enter the restaurant, which is basically already closed with the shutter half-way down and all, and I swear to God, you come out of there ten minutes later with a bag of living lobsters, screaming _This atrocity ends now!_”

Timmy would like to say again that this can't be true and that he would never do that – that he has never done anything even remotely similar in his life – but Alex's words ring true and, even if he can't remember himself doing all of that, he has flashes of him dealing with a man while he pulls out his wallet. “Oh God...”

“It's not over,” Alex informs him. “Burning with the sacred fire of lobster equality, I think, you speed up down the street and before any of us can stop you, you empty the bag in the river, screaming _Now you're free, my friends!_ probably killing them all, since they live in salt water. But your intentions were good, so I think you could be still considered a hero.”

Timmy hides his face in his hands and sighs. “How is this even possible? How could I be so wasted?” He moans while other pieces of the night come back to him. He remembers very clearly now all those lobsters dropping from the bag and splashing in the river, never to be seen again.

“Beer, mostly,” Alex explains. “You had at least four. Those are the one I counted, but then two drinks in and I was done, so I don't know how many more you had. I think Neri offered you a bitter too, at some point.”

“Right, because I wasn't drunk enough!” Timmy says, sarcastically. “I remember making out with you, though. Did that happen too?”

Alex nods. He takes the mug of horrible artichoke brew from him and pushes the juice flask into his hand. “Drink some of this. You need electrolytes,” he says matter-of-factly. “We did more than making out in my father's car. In fact, I think my underpants are still there.”

“Shit,” Timmy hisses. There are lines a man should never cross, and one of them is messing around with your boss's son in the man's car. “Did we...?”

“Yup,” Alex nods nonchalantly, hopping down the table. “I only remember half of it but I'm pretty sure it was good because I'm sore, covered in bruises and I woke up with the worst morning breath ever.”

Timmy closes his eyes, desperately trying not to remember any of it. This is definitely not the right moment for that. “Please, you're killing me,” he moans.

“Yeah, it went more or less like that,” Alex chuckles, shamelessly.

“Wait,” Timmy says, his face emerging from his hands. “If things were going that well, why I ended up sleeping in the barn?” It was not the first time, of course, because Alex is unforgiving and when he gets mad at him, there's no way Timmy is allowed to sleep with him. But that usually happens when they fight and they always fight before having sex, not after.

“You should ask yourself,” Alex shrugs. “Once we got back here you told me it was inappropriate for a grown-up like you to share the room with a boy like me and you self-banished your gentleman ass in the barn. You were still drunk.”

“Definitely,” Timmy groans. There's no reason whatsoever – not even Vince's request – that would keep him away from Alex's room if he's in his right mind. But yesterday, clearly, he wasn't.

“Anyway, I pretty much remember everything that happened last night, except one thing,” Alex goes on.

What else could have they done now? “What?” Timmy sighs, resigned.

Alex shows him. “This,” he says, handing him what looks like a mango with a face minutely carved into his red and green skin, a bunch of straws for hair and a Hawaiian skirt made with a paper napkin around his chubby roundness.

“What is that?” Timmy asks in shock.

Alex looks at the fruit and sighs. “I really have no idea. I woke up and there he was on my nightstand,” he says. “I think he comes from the club, one of us must have stolen him. But I have no memory of it.”

“Who gave him a face and dressed him?!” Timmy asks again, even more shocked. “And why are we referring to it as a him!?”

“Because he has a name,” Alex answers, turning the mango around to reveal another carving behind. “Apparently, he's called Gianni.”

“That makes no sense,” Timmy gives up, resting his head on the table. “Ugh, I feel like shit.”

Alex chuckles and pats him tenderly on his nape. “I know, but you must pull yourself together, Captain Lobster,” he speaks softly. “We need to check the car and the house for anything that shouldn't be there. Dads already wrote saying they'll be here by lunchtime, so we only have a couple of hours.”

“Great,” Timmy forces himself to raise his head, that feels much clearer now but still heavy like lead. Waking up at the crack of dawn to shovel manure is way better than this. He's sure he's never going to drink again. He's too old for this, anyway. “Alright, you check the car, I'll go change and check your room and the barn.”

It seems like a great plan until his phone alerts him of a message. Blaine almost never writes – that's Leo, who most of the time expresses himself through memes – if he has something to say to you, he calls you. Except when he's really mad and he knows that he can't control what comes out of his mouth. Timmy opens the message and shivers. 

_”800€ in a restaurant, Timmy? Seriously? We need to talk.”_

“Something wrong?”

Timmy sighs. “I thought I could leave now and go back to the States to avoid your fathers, but apparently I have no home there anymore. I'll have to call dad.”

“Which one?”

“The reasonable one.”

Even though he's not sure he is any longer. Not once you've used his money to free lobsters.

He will never drink again for sure. If he survives, that is.


End file.
